Till That Hour
by brickroad16
Summary: Camelot's new queen unexpectedly finds comfort in the company of a servant. AU. M/M.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Till That Hour

**Author**: brickroad16/inafadinglight

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: AU. Camelot's new queen unexpectedly finds comfort in the company of a servant.

**Characters**: Morgana, Merlin, Morgause, Gwaine, Gwen, Arthur, Gaius

**Pairing**: M/M

**Disclaimer**: I don't own _Merlin_. If I did, I'd have much better internet access.

**A/N**: I don't really know where this story came from, but it popped into my head and I wrote it down until it took shape. Please let me know what you think. It'll be a two-parter.

_I did not know I loved him till that hour. – Sara Teasdale_

**i.**

She stands at the window, swathed in purple silks, watching the town below as it settles in for the night. A pair of servants walks home through the streets, their cloak hoods up against the chill. They're off to retire for the night, to sleep off the day's work, whereas she can't remember the last time she had a full night's sleep, because of the nightmares, because of the crown that hangs over one post of her bed.

Her palms resting on the window sill, she lets out a long, soft sigh. There was a time she would've been jealous, jealous of the fact that every single person in this kingdom gets to go home, hold someone, and sleep through the night. Now, there are a thousand matters of state that weigh on her every day, matters that seem to only multiply by night. Now, there's barely a stirring in her as she watches doors close and lights twinkle out. Now, she wonders if she can feel anything anymore.

Her thoughts are disturbed when the door opens and a gawky, dark-haired servant stumbles in. He's new, Gaius's apprentice and some sort of relative, and she's seen him a few times before. The old physician sends him up each night with a sleeping draught, and sure enough, tonight he has it grasped in one hand like a treasure. A useless treasure, because the nightmares still come. And when it's not nightmares, it's simply worry that keeps her awake, worry for her kingdom, for her kin.

The servant stares at her with a lopsided smile. A bit unnerved by his open gaze, she gestures to the desk, a mess of papers and maps and figures, and says, "Just put it on the desk there."

"Right. Sure," he nods, hastening to follow her orders.

The tiny bottle is nearly swallowed by the stacks of papers. But then, instead of departing, he just stays there, one foot on the rug and one on the stone floor, a ridiculously oversized jacket hanging on his lanky frame.

She licks her lips, wondering what he wants. Servants don't do that. They complete their tasks and scurry out of her sight as quickly as they can. She takes a moment to study him, her eyes raking over the dark, messy hair, the angular cheeks, the sinewy frame. Gaius has mentioned him more than once. He has a bird's name. Peregrine, maybe. She lifts a questioning brow.

"I just, is there anything else you need?" he asks quietly. His voice is clear, soft and strong. Then, hesitantly, he adds, "My Queen."

She shakes her head, takes a seat at the desk again, picks up a quill. She studies a report, makes a few marks. Still he hovers. She can feel his eyes on her, searching and uncomfortable.

Without looking up, she makes another note and queries, "Yes?"

Nervously, he scratches at the back of his neck. "Merlin."

"Excuse me?"

"Uh, my name, it's Merlin."

Finally she does look up, straight into blue eyes so earnest they nearly steal her breath. After a steadying breath, she says, "Do you want thanks for delivering my sleeping draught? A reward, perhaps, for the job you are paid to do?"

She means it to be scathing, but she is tired and instead it comes out as bitter, broken.

"No," he shakes his head, a slight smile remaining on his lips. "I wanted to say thank you."

Her fingers tighten around the quill. "Why?"

The smile fades. "Because . . . I never belonged anywhere, until I came here." A flush rises to his cheeks, but he turns away before she can respond. "Let me tend the fire for you."

"There's no need," she assures him.

But he's already at the fireplace, stacking wood and stoking the embers. He looks back at her. "It's freezing in here. You need a fire."

As he says it, she suddenly becomes aware of the chilling cold in the room. She wonders how long the fire's been dying. Probably since supper, when Gwen had delivered her evening meal and tended to it before departing for the night.

When the servant – _Merlin_ – finishes his work, the flames blaze brightly, throwing an orange glow over his face, and she can feel the warmth suffusing the room. He stands, brushes off his trousers, and crosses the room to leave.

Just before he opens the door, something unfamiliar causes her to call out, "Thank you. . . . Merlin."

He smiles again, the smile brightening his entire demeanor, and gives her a short bow. "Good night, My Queen."

She returns to work, and promptly puts all thought of him from her mind.

**ii.**

She sits at the head of the banquet table, a silken smile on her rosy lips. The bejeweled crown upon her dark hair glitters in the low candlelight. She looks out upon the crowd, the nobles and knights who have chosen to remain loyal to Camelot, to support her rule. The festivities are subdued, but the turnout has encouraged her. Perhaps more citizens are open to the prospect of magic returning to the kingdom than her father had tried to lead her to believe.

Still, she hears the whispers. They do not fully trust her yet, even the ones who are hopeful about her stance on sorcery. They call her cold, the Ice Queen. Yet she cannot find it in herself to perform for them, not when she has played the loving ward for so long, not when there are a thousand matters weighing on her mind. If she had thought ruling a kingdom was going to be simple, she was wrong. But she has her sister beside her, and she is determined to show them that she will not fail, will not falter, even if that means they will not get the queen they expect.

Gwaine, sitting to her left, leans over to say, "They're expecting a speech."

Though recently – reluctantly – knighted, he refuses to be addressed as 'Sir.' Neither does he use proper titles for anyone else. It would bother her more if he weren't a superb fighter and a loyal leader of the guard.

"Let them expect it," she says in return. "I've already given them a feast. I do not wish to give them a speech as well."

On her right, Morgause frowns. "You shouldn't be so aloof. They need a public figure to latch on to, to give them hope that this turnover in power is no cause for alarm. You can't keep hiding."

"I address them as often as I need to, sister. They know that I'm busy keeping this kingdom and their homes safe."

"Still . . ." the blonde muses, and she doesn't like the look that's suddenly come into her sister's eyes. Morgause takes a sip of wine and says, "Perhaps it's time you marry."

Gwaine lets out a bark of a laugh at that notion.

"First of all," she says warningly, "I will decide when I shall marry, if I ever shall." She rounds on Gwaine. "And second of all, what is so funny about that?"

Shaking with stifled laughter, he manages to choke out, "Nothing, nothing at all. But you have to admit, you're sort of a daunting prospect for any man."

Morgause rolls her eyes subtly. "If you play this correctly, you may very well be able to make an advantageous alliance. A marriage with the right family could solidify your rule."

"It could also ruin my rule," she protests. "A husband would only try to overtake me. I will not marry, at least not soon."

She lifts a hand for more wine.

"Very well," her sister replies. "But think about it. I know you believe everything's going to be perfect because you've lifted the ban on magic, Morgana, but there is still much work to be done, and you're going to need help."

Lips tight, she nods. "I know. Give me time. I will find allies. I promise you."

The wine bearer leans over to refill her goblet. He's so close to her that the sleeve of his jacket brushes against her arm. She turns to reprimand the servant but stops, her mouth open and the words lost on her tongue, when she recognizes that unruly hair, that lopsided grin.

Merlin, bowing slightly, hands the goblet directly to her. Their fingers brush as she takes it, causing a soft jolt to course through her veins.

"My Queen," he says with a dip of his head before turning and resuming his place among the servants, beside Gwen.

Gwaine narrows his eyes suspiciously, his gaze flicking between Merlin and her. He lets out a soft grunt that could mean one of many things, none of them good. And she downs half the wine in one gulp.

**iii.**

The tip of her quill scratches across the parchment, and her hand trembles ever so slightly as she crosses a _t_, but still she doesn't lift her eyes as he walks through the door.

She has no idea why, but he's here again, like he's been every night for the past fortnight. It's not simply delivering sleeping draughts anymore. Just like that night with the fireplace, Merlin always seems to find a new chore to do, and always in the unspoken name of her comfort. He's cleaned her rug, scrubbed the floors, washed down all the windows, brought her extra pillows, all the while insisting that clean chambers lead to good health and good health leads to a calm mind.

Sometimes it's even a little something extra, like the flowers he'd brought her a few days before, a bright bundle of purple and white blossoms that still stand in a vase at the edge of the desk. She'd had them on the dining table in the next room, but decided she didn't like seeing them only at mealtimes or when passing through.

Her sister thinks she's simply encouraged a bootlicker who wants to get ahead by any means, but her sister hasn't seen the warmth in his eyes, or the way he goes about his tasks as if the only thing on his mind is the task itself.

Tonight, after glimpsing her uneaten supper, he's brought her a new meal and a jug of fresh wine. Instead of setting down his burden on the dining table, he carries it on through to the bedroom, where she sits hunched over her desk. Her gaze flicks up as he sets the tray on the window sill, but then he crosses to her. She starts as he leans over to sweep the papers into a pile and shuffles them into one corner, but watches silently as he replaces the documents with the supper tray.

When she looks up, he's got a goofy, expectant grin on his face. She sits back in the chair, studying his face. People walk on tiptoe around her, even those she is closest to, and it baffles her how open and cheerful and unafraid he is all the time.

"You're bold," she muses.

He simply smiles wider and says, "You need to eat. You'll make yourself sick if you keep working through the night and never eat."

"And who are you, to advise me?"

He shrugs and pours her a goblet of wine. "I'm your physician's apprentice, and I recommend proper meals at regular intervals. And believe me, I will stand here until you finish every last bite. Well, at least half. It's chicken today, though. Delicious."

Her sister would have his head for his insolence, but she can't stifle the smirk that plays over her lips. She pours a second goblet of wine and holds it out to him.

"Well," she says, "if you're going to be so incorrigible, you better have some wine."

His courage seems to evaporate with her words, but then, uncertainly, he reaches out for the goblet and settles himself uncomfortably at the edge of a chair. She watches him, amused, as he takes one sip and leaps out of the chair again.

"Thank you," he stammers. "The wine is, uh, it's fantastic."

"Merlin. Sit."

And even though she's sure every bone in that skinny body of his rebels against the command, he follows it anyway. Because she is his queen, even if he seems to frequently forget that fact.

She takes a sip of wine. "If you insist on . . . doing the things you do, then I think you owe me a few answers."

"I'm just a servant," he protests. "You don't want to know anything about me."

"But you see, I do."

He's silent for a moment, running his thumb along the edge of the goblet rim. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you wish to tell."

Merlin sighs and takes a gulp of wine, as if to fortify himself. Then he says, "I grew up in Ealdor, in Cenred's kingdom. I've . . . been moving things with my mind before I could even talk. My mother sent me here when we heard news that a new ruler was in power, one who favored magic. Back home, I never fit in. And I could never tell anyone. I grew up thinking it was bad to be different."

When he stops, she softly prompts, "And now?"

"And now, I'm finally learning that I don't have to be ashamed of who I am."

"No, you don't," she agrees.

She takes a bite of her supper and suddenly remembers how hungry she is.

After another moment, he asks, "What about you? When did you find out about your magic?" She looks up sharply, but then he adds, "I imagine that must've been difficult, growing up as King Uther's ward, knowing his views on magic."

She reaches for her wine goblet. Yes, difficult. And painful and bewildering and terrifying. She sometimes thinks her heart's been irrevocably scarred by the things she's seen under her father's rule, by their arguments, by his atrocities. The turmoil within her has become so constant that she's simply accepted it as a part of herself, accepted that her heart may never be whole again. And yet, there's something about him, maybe the taut passion in his eyes, that makes her feel . . . safe, almost.

"I've suffered from nightmares since before I can remember," she tells him. "But I was twelve years old when the things I saw at night started to come to pass during the day. I dreamed of my father dying in battle. My nurse tried to comfort me, told me it was only a dream. But then he went to battle, on Uther's command, and never returned. My nurse never spoke a word about what had happened, and I knew better than to ask, because before my father was cold in his grave, I was packed up and sent off to Camelot to become Uther's lovely ward. And, as naïve as I was, it was many years before I truly accepted that I had the gift, and even longer before I learned to control it."

"How'd you do it?"

There's no hatred in his eyes, no mistrust, nothing that she's used to when she speaks of magic, and that emboldens her. "My half-sister," she says.

A smile tugging at his lips, he nods and says, "Having someone else know what you are, and accept you for that, and not only that but actually help you and guide you . . . There's nothing like that feeling."

She swallows thickly. Her sister means the world to her. She can still remember the first time Morgause had taught her a spell, the way the warmth had flowed through her, tingling her fingertips, filling up the cavity in her chest.

"No, nothing," she agrees in a whisper.

Merlin's eyes, a stunning shade of blue, meet hers, and the intensity of his gaze sends a tremor through her. Abruptly, he stands and sets his goblet on the desk.

His eyes are downcast when he says, "Thank you for the wine, My Queen."

He leaves quickly, and she pretends that he is still merely a servant.

**iv.**

The green silk of her gown swishes around her ankles as she sweeps imperiously down the corridor. This afternoon, she is followed by only Gwen, instead of the usual half dozen handmaidens, and for that she is thankful. It is seemingly random moments like this, striding down a hallway, that she remembers how grateful she is for the younger woman's friendship. She had been her first friend when she came to Camelot as a wild, rage-filled twelve-year-old, she had been the only one able to calm her after the nightmares, and to this day she remains one of her closest confidantes. Gwen is like the calm to Morgause's tempest, and she sometimes doesn't know what she'd do without her, especially now that she is queen.

She rounds a corner only to stumble ever so slightly when she spots Merlin, carrying a basket of fresh laundry in his arms, walking towards them from the opposite end of the passageway.

He smiles brightly as he comes closer, and she's once again glad that the rest of her handmaidens are not here. As surprising as it is, that grin of his seems to have an effect on more than just her. Two of her handmaidens have an awful habit of swooning around the more handsome male servants, and Merlin sends all of them into a twitter.

She catches that thought midway. She did _not_ just think of Merlin – awkward, gangly Merlin – as handsome.

Did she?

Luckily, she is distracted as he stops, inclines his head respectfully, and says, "My Queen."

_What audacity_, she thinks, even as she fights a smile.

Gwen spares him a wide, amused grin, and he greets her quietly, but still she says nothing. Because there are eyes and ears everywhere in this castle, and it would not do for a queen to be observed allowing the attentions of a servant. Instead, she waltzes by him without even a glance to acknowledge his existence.

It is only when they have nearly reached her chambers that Gwen speaks up. "Are you all right, milady?"

"Fine," she smiles. "Why wouldn't I be?"

And then the queen of Camelot notices that her fingers are trembling uncontrollably.

**v.**

Her attention is caught by Merlin as he carries a warming pan across the room to warm up the sheets of her bed.

"Gwen will do that," she dismisses.

He shoots her one of those disarming smiles of his. "You sent Gwen home hours ago."

Setting down her quill, she twists to look out the window, only to find the sky black with night, a quarter moon poking through the purplish clouds.

"It's late," he continues gently. "You need to sleep."

She frowns and returns to her work. "Not until I figure out how to stop at least half a dozen kingdoms from declaring war on Camelot."

"You think you're going to figure that out in a night?"

She raises her eyes to glare at him, but he simply chuckles and walks toward her. His irreverence is beginning to irk rather than simply intrigue, but she does not know how to counter it. If he acted that way anywhere but in the privacy of her chambers, she could teach him a lesson and put him in the stocks. But he is the model servant, going about his tasks for the physician and barely even raising an eye to her, even as a private smirk plays across his lips.

And so the queen of Camelot is rendered speechless as he strolls to her side of the desk, places his forearms on the tabletop, and leans over to peruse the papers. He points to a map, his fingertip over his old land.

"No, see," he begins, suddenly serious, "Cenred already has wealth _and_ power, and he knows the citadel is impregnable. He won't attack."

"How do you know?" she demands. "His men have been spotted near our border."

"Just harmless scouts, probably. He likes to keep informed. He won't attack because he knows he can't take the castle alone, but he's too proud to enlist another king's help. You don't need to worry about Cenred."

She twists her lips thoughtfully. "Okay, what about Mercia?"

His finger slides to the kingdom in question. "Ah, now Bayard is in a tough spot right about now. He had a peace treaty with Uther, but we all know they only barely tolerated each other. Mercia is much more sympathetic to magic. A lot of Camelot's refugees flooded into their lands after the Purge. Right now, he's waiting for you to prove what sort of ruler you'll be, if you'll follow through with your promises or if you'll revert to your father's ways –"

"I am _not_ my father."

Merlin, almost absently, holds up a palm in defense. "What you need to do is reach out to him, show him that Camelot is changing, and that a lasting accord between your two kingdoms would be beneficial for both."

She lets out a soft hum. "What of Lord Godwin?"

"Yes," he says with a frown, "he's going to be your biggest problem. He was one of Uther's oldest friends; he probably takes less than kindly to your little overthrow."

"Excuse me? My 'little overthrow'?"

Merlin ignores her. She rolls her eyes.

"However, his kingdom is small, his army smaller. If you reach out, especially to those kingdoms tolerant of magic, win them to your side, he'll have no choice but to accept you as the new monarch. He could hardly risk attacking Camelot once you've made a point of forging alliances."

She stares at him wonderingly. He looks up, catches her gaze, and straightens, a blush on his cheeks.

"How is it that you, a servant, know so much?" she queries. "How is it that you can be so confident in your advice to me when my own council hems and haws its way through meetings?"

His shoulder twitches in a nervous shrug. "Servants hear a lot. And I believe you will be a great queen." He moves away to busy himself with stoking the fire. "Will you go to sleep now?"

But she is not quite finished with the matter. She rises from her chair, crosses her arms, watches him work. "And my council does not?"

"I didn't mean that. I only meant . . ." He pauses in the midst of gathering another log for the flames. "Perhaps you need to believe it yourself."

**vi.**

"I think you should free Arthur."

Her hands pause in mid-air as she turns the page of a report. Thunder rumbles; rain lashes at the windowpanes. She raises a challenging eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

To his credit, he isn't even pretending to do work at the moment, having abandoned his current chore of scrubbing the floor. He's sitting on the floor, cross-legged, the bucket beside him and the sponge in his hand. "He's your brother."

"He is his father's son."

"You don't know that."

"He'll try to free our father. I can't have that."

"No, you can't. But he won't, as long as you tell him the truth. Once you repair your relationship, he will be your greatest ally."

"Why are you asking me this?"

"Because you are brother and sister –"

"_Half_-brother and –sister."

"And you have need of his military expertise and fighting prowess. He could be a valuable advisor. The two of you could be the greatest leaders Camelot has ever seen."

"You're suggesting I share power with him?"

"You don't have to make him co-regent or anything. But he _is_ a prince. At the very least, he could fill a seat on your council."

Frowning, she leans back in her chair and fixes him with a direct look. "Why are you really asking me to do this?"

Her tone makes it clear that if any lies fall from his lips, there will be punishment.

He stands, brushes off his trousers, and walks over in front of the desk. "Because you are winning people over, but your progress is slow. A lot of citizens still don't trust you. But they do put their faith in Arthur. And if he were by your side, supporting you, you'd truly command the entirety of Camelot."

**vii.**

She pauses in midsentence as he stumbles through the door of the council chambers. Arthur shoots him a warning glare, and he sinks back against the wall and sidles up beside Gwen.

"I apologize for my servant's interruption," Arthur says. "I promise it won't happen again."

"Your servant?" she repeats, straightening and fixing her half-brother with a look.

"Yes," he nods. "Since Merlin here was basically responsible for . . ." He stops when he catches her glower, then amends, "Well, I needed one. He'll have to do."

"Fine. But teach him the meaning of punctuality."

She flicks her gaze over in time to catch the tiny smirk that plays on Merlin's lips, but Gwen nudges him in the shoulder and he quickly sobers.

Gaius clears his throat and prompts, "About the repairs to the town, Your Majesty . . ."

She nods. "Yes, where were we? The extent of the damage?"

Gwaine, arms crossed, says, "Most of the damage is concentrated in the lower town. Collapsed roofs, flooding, water damage. The townspeople can't handle it on their own."

Her eyes rove over the maps that litter the table, even as her mind wanders.

"We need to send repair crews to each section of town," Arthur suggests. "Win their loyalty by proving that we care."

She can feel Merlin's gaze on her, penetrating through her, as he waits for her judgment, waits to see what sort of ruler she will truly be. She doesn't know why, but his opinion somehow means more to her than that of anyone else in this room.

"Your Highness?" Gaius urges.

Snapping from her thoughts, she looks up and shakes her head to clear it. The members of the council are regarding her curiously.

"Yes, what?" she demands quietly.

"We were discussing how you want to go about the repairs to town."

It takes a moment to return to the conversation, but when she does, she says, "Yes, of course. Arthur will oversee the repairs. We will visit the lower town in the morning to survey the damage." She waves a hand. "The council's dismissed."

She looks down as they file out, but Merlin lingers, his gaze boring through her armor, before disappearing after Gwen. When she looks up again, Morgause is standing across the table, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised in scrutiny.

"What happened?" she demands gently. "Where'd you go?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You were barely paying attention. I know you trust the council members, but you have to give them a reason for their loyalty. You must act a queen every single second."

"Morgause . . . I know. I was just a little preoccupied, that's all."

Morgause purses her lips. "It's that servant, isn't it? He's distracting you too much. Just take him to your bed and be done with it, sister."

She shakes her head in confusion. "What?"

"You're the queen; he's a servant. Order him if you have to. Though, by the way he looks at you, you won't have much trouble persuading him." Morgause sends her one last wicked smile and sweeps from the room.

**viii.**

When he's finished putting new sheets on her bed (even though she'd protested that that was Gwen's job and she'd done it only the day before), he leans against a post, crosses his arms, and stares straight at her. All her determination withers beneath his gaze.

She sets down her quill and looks up. She can tell just by the look on his face that he has something to say. She doesn't like to think about why she started listening to him in the first place.

"What is it?" she asks.

"You should let Sir Leon out of the dungeons as well."

A short, surprised laugh escapes her throat. "Leon tried to lead a revolt against me. Why would I do that?" He doesn't answer right away, and she stands and saunters toward him. "But you knew that. So the only question that remains is: why is a servant so insistent on freeing knights who want to end my reign?"

Still he holds her stare, those cobalt eyes of his piercing her. He says, "Sir Leon is one of Arthur's best and most trusted knights. Now that he knows you and Arthur are working together, he will no longer fight against you. And he has influence. Win him to your side and you will win a host of other knights as well." He pauses to shoot her a cheeky smile. "A good sovereign knows when to fight with swords and when to fight with something else entirely, My Queen."

He drops his eyes when he addresses her, and she hates that she can't tell what runs through his mind. She's lived at court her entire life, knows the games people play, and yet she finds this servant unreadable.

With an exaggerated roll of her eyes, she replies, "A good sovereign knows when to listen to her own advice instead of some silly servant boy's."

Even so, Leon appears beside Arthur on the training field the very next morning, and she pretends not to notice the smirk on Merlin's face after Gaius tells him the news.

**ix.**

She takes a deep breath as the evening breeze ruffles her hair. The parapets have always been her favorite part about Camelot's castle. When she was a girl, new ward to an intolerant king, she'd come up here after their arguments, to kick at the stones and wear herself down until her temper cooled. Or she and Arthur would race up the staircases, and he'd pout when she'd beat him.

Tonight, she's retreated here in order to clear her mind, so often tangled and disordered with matters of state. It's hard to believe that, mere months ago, she was still an unsatisfied ward, good for only looking pretty, thinking that everything would be different once she was queen. And by retreating to her hideout, she's also managed to escape from a certain pair of hauntingly blue eyes, eyes that see deeper to her truth than she is comfortable with.

The clanking of armor from down below in the square catches her attention, and she looks down to see her half-brother and a few of his knights marching their way across the courtyard, squires in tow, Arthur's new manservant among them. Swallowing thickly, she grasps the stone wall in order to control the trembling in her hands. She silently curses the way he can affect her so deeply.

Her sister is right. He's somehow wormed his way into her stone-cold heart, and now she's driven to distraction by his mere presence, a most unqueenly position. Something must be done about it, to be sure.

But as she casts her gaze down upon the small band of men, she's struck by a sudden, disabling thought. All of the knights down there – Arthur, Leon, Percival, Yvain, Galahad – all of them are able to walk free because of one man, one servant who has somehow captured her ear. Perhaps that is not all he's captured. Perhaps that is not all he _means_ to capture still.

He's been insisting that all these pardons are ultimately in favor of her goal, to restore magic to the kingdom and ensure her sovereignty by gaining the trust of the people. But there he walks, with five of the men he's freed, all five of whom were previously sworn to her father, the father who denied her and made the past twelve years of her life a misery.

After she's done all the hard work for them, barely anything stands in their way if they are indeed planning to stage a coup. She's practically invited her own dethronement, and all because of her reluctant trust in a silly boy with ears much too large for his good and a smile much too charming.

She lets out a heavy sigh.

Then again, this would not be the first time she's been played for a fool by someone she cares for. The only thing to do now is give him an opportunity to prove his loyalty.

**x. **

When he arrives that night, she's ready for him, having shed her elaborate court gown for a simple, silken nightgown. She turns from her post at the window as he enters, a smile lighting up his face. He strolls through to the bedroom and stops to take stock, his gaze roaming over her desk, free of all papers and reports. He looks over his shoulder at the dining table in the other room, at the empty supper plates.

"Well," he says, hands on his hips in bewilderment, "you've eaten supper without coercion _and_ you're not spending the entire night bent over your papers? If I didn't know better, I'd say you were starting to listen to me."

She fights the urge to roll her eyes. As if he doesn't know exactly how much she listens to him, a queen relying on a servant boy.

"Perhaps I am," she tells him quietly.

He grins. "I'm just a servant."

"Perhaps I listen to you too much."

His grin falters, but then he catches sight of the fireplace, the flames mere dancing embers now, and swiftly crosses the room to pile more logs on. "I don't think so," he says from his knees on the hearth. "If you did, you would've have let your fire die down. The nights are growing colder. Camelot can't have its queen getting sick."

Regarding him studiously, trying to ignore the blood pulsing through her veins at the sight of his cheekbones in the firelight, she says, "I don't need a fire, not tonight."

His movements slow as he places a log, but he doesn't reply.

With a deep breath, she saunters toward him. "Tonight, you'll keep me warm."

Merlin's body tenses. Deliberately, he rises from his position on the floor and swivels to face her. Something that's not quite anger darkens his expression and furrows his brow. The sight makes her take an involuntary step backward. She's never seen him like this.

He shakes his head.

She's lived her whole life getting everything she's wanted without even needing to ask. Here she stands, a queen in name and in blood, and defied by a servant, a boy who lives his life unnoticed, a boy to whom no high-born girl would give a second glance, a boy barely old enough to grow a beard.

She narrows her eyes. "I am your queen."

His shoulders heave with the deep, calming breath that he takes, but his voice is steady as he says, "I don't follow queens who treat their subjects as pawns."

In his eyes, those gloriously blue eyes of his, is everything else he wants to say: _I served you faithfully. I was loyal. I believed in you when the entire kingdom was threatening to fall to pieces around you._

She feels almost guilty, just for a split second, but she holds onto enough of her icy composure to say, "There are countless men who would kill to be in your position at this moment."

"Indeed?" he queries coldly. "They would kill to be stripped of their will? To be believed incapable of any emotion deeper than base desire? To have everything within them, all their hopes and goals and destinies, reduced to a lustful tumble?" His lips have curled into something eerily resembling a sneer as he delivers the final blow. "You may be beautiful, but you do men no kindness to assume that each and every one of us would sacrifice the world to worship you. We have more on our minds than protecting your deluded sense of self-worth."

All this time he hasn't raised his voice at all, and maybe it's this more than the bitterness, the aching sadness, in his gaze that makes it easier for her to build up the walls that have come tumbling down since he first came around, since he first made her think about someone other than herself.

She takes a defiant step toward him and lifts her chin. His eyes rake over the pale curve of her neck before he looks adamantly at the ground, as if ashamed of his dwindling willpower. But even his slip gives her no pleasure, instead serves to enliven her ire.

Another step forward. "And what are you protecting, Merlin? _Your_ honor? _Your_ reputation? You are a servant; I am your mistress."

His jaw jumps at her tone, but holds his head high again, though his nostrils flare as he struggles to control his breathing. They are two statues of stony, immovable pride, and just for a moment, she considers that marble cannot be broken down by more marble. Only fire, warmth, can melt its frozen core.

His voice, already faint, cracks as he asks, "Is this an order?"

Yet another step. Close enough now to feel the rage radiating from his taut body, close enough to feel his warm breath on her cheek.

"And if it were?" she asks silkily.

He lets out a breath, his chest heaving. "Do your worst," he breathes. "Put me in the stocks. Put me on the pyre. Put me on the block. But this is one order I will not follow."

He spins abruptly and strides away. Only when he is at the door does he turn back to say, "You may be comfortable ordering everyone around according to your desires, but I am not your plaything, to be used and thrown out like one of last year's gowns, like the leftovers from yesterday's meal."

He disappears, and she is left alone, her mouth open disconcertedly as she marvels over how an inconsequential slip of a servant can stir such shame in her once-frozen heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Till That Hour

**Author**: brickroad16/inafadinglight

**Rating**: PG

**Summary**: AU. Camelot's new queen unexpectedly finds comfort in the company of a servant.

**Characters**: Morgana, Merlin, Lancelot, Bayard, Arthur, Gaius, Godwin

**Pairing**: M/M, _slight_ A/G

**Disclaimer**: I do not, and never will, own _Merlin_. I am just bored and have an imagination.

**A/N**: That's it, guys! Just a two-parter. And I know I keep saying this, and I keep coming out with new stuff (albeit spaced out, super random stuff), but I think this may be my last fic. Because, let's face it, although I still adore both _Chuck_ and _Merlin_, the new seasons start up in October, and I don't have the access to them that I always did before. Which means I'm going to be weeks behind all the other viewers, my fics will be irrelevant, blah blah blah.

Also, I spent the summer with a bunch of free time that has disappeared now that work has started in earnest. I want to concentrate on using my free time to stay healthy and stay sane (both pretty hard to do), which means I want to shift my focus from fanfic to original stuff. For realsies this time. Anyways, I feel like I owe you an explanation, so here it is. I really have had a lot of fun writing fanfic (which maybe explains why I can't seem to stop, lol).

**A/N That Actually Pertains to the Story**: Aurelius is an Arthurian name, but I tweaked the genealogy a bit to take Balinor into account.

_I did not know my heart could tell his tread._

_I did not know I loved him till that hour. – Sara Teasdale_

**i.**

"Again."

She twirls her blade into a hanging guard and pauses, waiting. Lancelot, breathing heavily, faces her, arms at his side, sword tip ghosting the grass. He's new to Camelot, but his life's ambition was to be a knight, and he's taken to the task like a fish to water, a bird to the sky. Arthur, Leon, and the other knights respect him, respect his skills, but he's lowborn, a commoner, and she finds him most often in company with Merlin, of all people. This morning, luckily, Merlin is nowhere to be found, probably off with Arthur somewhere, and they have the training ground to themselves.

"Your Majesty," he begins, ever respectful, "are you certain you don't want a respite?"

"If I wanted one, I would have taken one," she retorts.

His mouth twitches with an unspoken response as he steps into a fighting stance. She attacks swiftly, sloppily, and he parries easily before stepping forward to press his own attack.

"Has something," Lancelot asks between strikes and labored breaths, "upset you, Your Majesty?"

She feels the muscles in her upper arms coil and spring as she unleashes an assault aimed at his unprotected shoulder. He scrambles to block it, letting out a grunt when the blades clang together.

"Of course not," she pants. "Why would you think that?"

"You're unusually, er, zealous this morning."

She slices at him. He scrambles to find his footing, and a smile comes to her lips because she can hold her own with one of Camelot's best swordsmen.

"Tell me," she begins as the fight reaches a breathing point and the pacing begins, "what do you know of Merlin?"

Lancelot, wary eyes on her, lets out a long breath. "Arthur's servant?"

"You're often together."

He smiles. "He was my first friend in Camelot." She strikes again, but he continues to explain as they fight. "He's a good man, the best I know. Arthur is my lord. I would follow him wherever he asked. But Merlin . . ."

He stops to block a blow, then reverts with his own attack.

"What?" she queries as she hastily deflects a strike, their swords clashing. "What about him?"

"I'd follow Merlin to the ends of the earth, and he wouldn't even have to ask."

And before she realizes it, she's on the flat of her back on the grass, staring up at him across the blade of his sword.

**ii.**  
>The sinking sun throws orange and golden rays out across the sky, and she doesn't want to close her eyes for fear that she will miss a moment's beauty. There is too little of that in her life right now. A light evening breeze catches her hair, blowing dark wavy locks into her face. She reaches up to brush them away.<p>

The sound of a light footfall on the stair reaches her ears, carried by the breeze, but, even as her breath hitches in her throat, she doesn't turn. She did not know her heart knew his tread. But she has no desire to converse with him.

He steps up to the wall, his hands resting on the stone barricade, just a few feet away from her.

_What do you want?_ she wants to say, to spit, to demand.

Instead, what comes out is a timid, almost vulnerable, "How did you find me?"

"I . . ." he begins with a shrug, "went looking."

He has expertly avoided her for over a week now. What can he possibly want with her now?

"Why?" she asks, still looking at the sunset instead of him. She's afraid that if she does, she'll see the way the dying rays illuminate his dark hair, that she wouldn't be able to handle the swelling of her heart at such a sight.

"To apologize," he says, simply.

Now she does look, his reply is that unexpected. "Excuse me?"

"I was unfair to you," he frowns. "I sometimes forget that, however alike we are, we are still very different. You've been raised in privilege and I in poverty. What you were proposing . . . It means different things to both of us. It never occurred to me to think about _why_ you were . . ."

"And what reasons have you ascribed to me?"

Lips pursed contemplatively, he twists to face her. "I think being queen is lonelier than you expected, lonelier even than being the king's ward was."

She turns away with a slight scoff. "Oh, well done. Every single person in history who has amassed power has been lonely. It's nothing I can't handle."

He stares at her openly. She can feel a tremor go through her as his eyes rake over her face.

"Then if it wasn't loneliness," he says, inching closer, "what was the real reason?"

Looking at him again, she asks, "Why did you insist on coming around every night? On finding new chores to do? Of always finding a way to be around?"

He holds her eyes a moment, then says, "I want to serve my queen."

A soft, bitter laugh escapes her throat. "You should find a worthier queen."

His abrupt, intense nearness unnerves her. Then she makes the mistake of looking into his eyes, and she finds she cannot climb out again.

"There is no one worthier," he murmurs. "And I promise, when I do kiss you, it won't be because you ordered me to."

She gulps, and he turns away to disappear down the stairwell just as quickly and quietly as he'd arrived.

**iii.**

"I must say, Your Majesty," Bayard begins with a smile, "I hardly thought it was possible, but you've grown even more beautiful since my last visit to Camelot."

She smiles, and it's almost genuine. There's a clatter from the far side of the hall which she pretends not to notice as Merlin, here to attend the prince, knocks over a tray. Arthur turns to direct a not-so-subtle glare at his manservant.

"You're too kind, King Bayard," she tells him, "but I assure you, you don't need to compliment me to secure the peace between our countries. And I'm afraid you'll put my brother off his appetite."

"Yes," Arthur interjects teasingly, "if you want to compliment someone, _I_ won't object to a pretty turn of phrase, certainly."

The visiting king, a hint of a smile on his lips, gives a small nod of his head. "You'll forgive me if I pass, I think, but I only say what I feel."

"A virtue, I think, that not many men possess," she says before hiding her expression by taking a swig of wine.

Bayard wisely stifles a smile as he replies, "On behalf of my sex, I think that's a tad ungenerous of you. I think the prince will support me on this."

"Hear, hear," Arthur says dutifully. Turning to the king, he adds, "You know what I think it is? I think she just hasn't met the right man to change her mind."

Arthur waves for a wine refill. Merlin steps forward to top-up his glass without lifting his eyes. Maybe it's in her mind, but there's an uneasy tautness in his lean form that isn't normally there.

"Is that so?" Bayard muses. He suddenly straightens. "I have three sons, you know."

The half-siblings' reactions are nothing to Merlin's. As if a spasm suddenly runs through his body, he jumps, his arm jerks, and the wine goes everywhere, including all over Arthur's new tunic.

Arthur, ire in his eyes, rises abruptly. He pushes Merlin's hands away as the servant attempts to mop up the mess.

"You _idiot_," he seethes.

"I'm so sorry, sire," Merlin breathes. Eyes downcast, a blush on his cheeks, he looks as pitiable as a stray dog, starving in the streets.

And just like that, Arthur's anger vanishes. He sighs and gives a small wave of his hand. "Just . . . get this cleaned up."

"Yes, sire."

Arthur takes his plate to the opposite side of the table while Merlin finishes sopping up the wine.

"I apologize for my manservant's clumsiness," the prince says with a frown. "You were saying?"

"Ah, yes," Bayard begins, "well, the alliance is secure as it is, I know. But there they are, and here you are, and you may want to meet them, just to see if they spark your fancy, that's all."

"Of course," she nods. "How considerate of you. I should be glad to meet them. Perhaps we can arrange a visit to Mercia soon?"

Bayard smiles genially, and she remembers why she likes him so much.

"I look forward to it."

**iv.**

The sun has nearly risen when she bursts through the doors to Gaius's chambers. It's early enough for him to still be abed, dawn's rays only just creeping in through the windows, but, in a stroke of good fortune, the old physician is already awake, already leaning over his work table as he conducts an experiment.

He looks up in surprise, that eyebrow of his nearly to his hairline, when she gusts in. "Your Highness? Whatever's the matter?"

She's noticed that he oftentimes has difficulty forgetting that she is no longer the young girl he took care of when she first came to Camelot, has difficulty remembering that she is sovereign now. The habit irks her sister, but if truth be told, it rather comforts her, gives her a small sense that not _everything_ has changed.

One look at her face, and he already knows the answer to his own question.

"A nightmare?" he guesses, worry heavy in his voice. When she nods in confirmation, he frowns and asks, "Have you been taking your sleeping draught? You know -"

That damn draught.

"I don't need a sleeping draught," she tells him more angrily than he deserves. "I need answers."

He sits down on a bench, suddenly seeming older to her than he ever has. "If you'll forgive me, I was under the impression that Morgause was assisting you with your magical abilities. She must know more about Seeing than I do."

"This isn't something Morgause can help with," she says, beginning to pace now. "I dreamed of your apprentice tonight."

Gaius's eyes shine with concern. "Merlin?"

"Gaius, you have served me loyally and honorably. Now I need you to tell me truly: how powerful is he?"

Shaking his head wearily, he says, "It's hard to say. You know my history. Everything I know was learned, but he was born with his gift. He has the most raw, instinctual talent of any warlock I've ever seen, and I've been helping him study, hone those talents. But as to how powerful he may be one day . . . The answer may be: unfathomably powerful."

She sinks onto the windowsill.

"My lady?" he queries gently. "May I ask what sort of dream prompted this inquiry?"

"He's going to be the most powerful sorcerer Albion's ever seen, isn't he?" she murmurs.

"He's just a boy," Gaius says, a note of pleading in his voice, "can't even keep himself out of trouble."

She finally turns her eyes to him again, sees the affection for his young charge in his gaze. "Don't worry, Gaius. I am not my father. I won't hurt him. The kingdom could be in need of a man like him someday."

The question is: _whose kingdom? _Will it still be hers, when he is court sorcerer and chief advisor? Or will it be her brother's?

**v. **

Bayard raises his wine goblet to her. "I won't say you look beautiful tonight," he chuckles. "I'll only think it."

"Thank you," she says, smiling in return.

Her eyes drift away, because at that moment, Arthur beckons to his servant, who walks forward and leans down to hear his master's orders. The candlelight throws shadows across his face, but she thinks he looks even thinner than normal. And then she recalls her dream, the knowledge that he will one day be the ruler of Camelot's right hand, possibly the real power behind the throne, and she has to force herself to breathe again.

"Have you considered my offer?" the visiting king asks quietly.

"Oh, yes," she finds herself saying, "I would be pleased to join our houses. If you have no objection, I will visit as soon as I can. Next month perhaps? And we will discuss it further then." Unexpectedly, Bayard frowns. "That doesn't suit you?"

He shakes his head. "I was always honest with your . . . predecessor," he says, and she thanks him silently for the amendment, "and I would like to continue the tradition. Not to mention, I feel it my duty, as your elder, to give you some advice, however unwanted. I've given it some thought, and I don't think any of my sons would suit _you_."

"Surely that matters very little when it comes to aligning two great kingdoms?"

"That's what . . . he would have said, yes, but I disagree. Why should love and sovereignty not coexist? In fact, I believe a monarch who makes a love match is a much better monarch because of it."

Her eyes slide over to Arthur again, but this time back toward the wall, where her own handmaiden stands at attention.

"I don't think I quite understand you," she tells him.

"No? You see, I've always noticed that it's best not to marry one, when you're in love with another entirely."

Her gaze shoots back to his. She grips the arms of her chair to keep her trembling hands from betraying her. "Excuse me?" she queries through a feigned chuckle. "Who on earth would I be in love with?"

But as soon as the question has left her lips, she realizes that this king beside her is shrewder than he appears.

"You've already shocked the world by usurping your father," he says gently. "Why not shock them even more by marrying a servant?"

**vi. **

In the end, she's accompanied by just Arthur and a half dozen knights. She'd had a hard enough time convincing the council, who – unsurprisingly, considering who sits on it – had wanted to respond aggressively. She's left behind Morgause for her unpredictable temper, Gwaine for the same reason, though he'd nearly thrown a fit when she'd informed them that Lancelot would be going in his stead. After hours of debate, and a touching if unexpected moment of solidarity from her half-brother, she'd finally gotten her way.

Though Arthur had insisted on bringing his manservant. Of course. He rides beside Lancelot, who attempts to engage him in conversation, and she is able to escape him for a while, though she cannot ignore how his gaze lingers on her. She pretends not to notice it as they reach Lord Godwin's camp and dismount. She and Arthur stand shoulder-to-shoulder while their retinue forms a semi-circle behind them.

Their father's old friend deigns to exit his tent upon their arrival, though he's dressed much differently from the last time they saw him. Gone are the courtly robes and long cape, replaced by chainmail and a sword.

"Lord Godwin," she greets with a small inclination of her head.

The old man grimaces. "And what should I call you now? For I can no longer call you Lady Morgana, but neither are you Queen Morgana to me. Perhaps . . . Usurper?"

"You should watch your tongue, sir," Arthur growls, and she hears the rest of his unspoken threat: _or you will lose your tongue_.

But Godwin only turns a surprised eye on the prince. "Oh? I find it curious that you support her so thoroughly, considering you were once the sole heir to the throne and that she deposed your father."

"My reasons for my conduct are my own," replies Arthur, and a bright flicker of pride and warmth runs through her.

"Oh, but I think they are mine, too, now. Unlike you, I cannot support this false queen."

"She is false neither by blood nor by right. State your complaint or leave our land."

As touched as she is by her brother's defense, she briefly considers whether she should have left him behind in the citadel with Morgause and Gwaine. She'd forgotten it, but he can have almost as sharp a temper as those two.

Godwin, a hand on his sword, squares his shoulders. "The pair of you usurped Uther Pendragon, the rightful ruler of this kingdom and your father, and I have come to answer for this grievous transgression."

"With what army?" Arthur queries, easily slipping back into his cocky manner. "Camelot's army is four times the size of yours, and the citadel is impregnable. What do you hope to achieve besides your own dishonor?"

She places a hand on her brother's arm to check his speech, and he draws back a step. She takes a breath and says, "I think you are forgetting, Lord Godwin, that our father took this kingdom by force. If we 'usurped' him, as you say, we were merely following his ruthless example. However, since the people of this kingdom no longer object to the overturn in power, then neither do you have any claim to do so."

Godwin stiffens. "And if I still do object?"

"Then the prince is right. Your forces are no match for ours. You may swear fealty and leave peacefully, or you may fight and be decimated. The choice is yours."

She turns away and strides back to her wild, white mare, leaving Godwin standing there dumbfounded. Swiftly, Merlin is at her side to hand her into the saddle. But she has barely a second to spare him a thought, for once she is astride, reins in hand, she looks down upon Godwin and says, "You have until sundown."

It's but a moment before Arthur and the knights are mounted, and once they are, they set off at a gallop for home.

**vii.**

"I would go with the white one."

She swivels to find him, a cheeky grin on his face as he rests his back against the closed door. He jerks his chin at her dresses spread out on the bed, white next to green beside purple. Of course he has to catch her in the act of choosing what to wear. She has half a mind to give Gwen a good telling-off when she finally reappears, but the desire softens when she considers whom her handmaiden has deserted her for.

"And what would you know about gowns?" she asks, a gentle smile on her lips.

He pushes himself off the door and comes toward her. "More than you'd expect. You should wear the white one."

"I'll consider it."

"Fair enough."

She levels an open gaze at him. "Why are you here?"

He tilts his head. "I need a reason?"

A frustrated sigh escapes her lips. He's unusually pert today. Of course he needs a reason. A servant can't simply waltz into the queen's rooms for a morning chat. "You usually have a sleeping draught when you come here, or a list of chores you've given yourself."

He begins a lazy turn about the room, dragging his hands along the bedposts. "I came because I wanted to say that I think you handled the situation with Lord Godwin admirably."

He's by the window now, illuminated by the late morning sun. She suddenly realizes that he'll never stop overstepping his bounds. Maybe it's the power constantly struggling to get out of him that makes him so irrelevant when it comes to authority. Whatever it is, he speaks his mind, and it's more often than not in praise of her.

"How is it you have so much faith in me?" she asks softly.

"You are my queen," he replies simply, smiling, turning to gaze out the window.

As they leave his lips, she realizes just how much meaning he puts into those two simple words: _my queen_. Never before has she felt as though she belonged to someone. Never before has she wanted to. She lays a hand on the bed post, watches him across the room. "Sometimes I don't understand you."

When he turns around, there's bewilderment etched on his face. "What's to understand?"

"Why me?"

"I already told you."

"You barely know me."

A hint of a smile appears on his lips. "I know you."

"Then it's even more unbelievable that you put your faith in me. Why not Arthur?"

"Don't you understand?" he chuckles lightly, and she's so accustomed to his manner by this point that she's not even vexed anymore. "Believing in you _is_ believing in Arthur. You're two sides of one coin, and only together can you unite this land."

There's such admiration in his eyes that she has to force herself to catch her breath. "Who said anything about uniting the land? I'll be happy if we can keep this kingdom on its feet."

"You will," he says, without a second's hesitation. "You will do more, so much more."

She shakes her head. "How do you know?"

He shrugs again, that adorably lopsided smile of his winning her over despite herself. "I just know." He crosses the room, already on his way out, moving to his own rhythm, one which she cannot discern. But just before he disappears into the corridor, he turns and says, "Besides, I like the white one."

**viii.**

She's wearing the white dress he likes so much when she gathers the court. Perched on her throne, Morgause behind her shoulder, she looks down on the hall. Arthur stands in the front with a small group of knights. Gaius occupies his usual place off to the left. Merlin and Gwen converse quietly together near a pillar.

The empty throne sitting to her right provokes stares and whispers, stares and whispers which she silences with just one command.

Arthur's grinning when he kneels before Sir Geoffrey, grinning when he steps onto the dais, grinning when he takes his seat beside her in his new official role of coregent. The gathered crowd, so small compared to the kingdom's population, cheers loudly, and she can only imagine what the commoners' reaction will be.

But as her gaze meets that of a certain dark-haired servant, she realizes that she hasn't done this to boost her own status. She hasn't done it for the additional approval it will bring from the townspeople. She hasn't even done it to repair her relationship with her brother.

She's done it for an impudent, maddening, idiotic, loyal, wise, compassionate boy – no, man – whom she has somehow, unwittingly, allowed within her heart. But as she looks into his eyes, she knows she's already a better queen with him by her side than she ever could have achieved without him.

The feast later that night is the merriest since she ascended to the throne. The wine flows freely, the conversation and laughter even more so. The best thing about Arthur's co-regency is that he's always been the chatty, boastful one, always willing to take away the attention. Tonight, he's the center of attention once again, and she's more than willing to stay in the background, simply observing. She's found that, sometimes, she likes it better that way.

She likes to watch Arthur laugh, likes to watch him throw his head back and let out that burst of sound that reminds her so much of their childhood, when they would chase each other through the trees, waving wooden practice swords, and their fights would inevitably end in shaking, uncontrollable laughter. She likes watching the blush that rises to his cheeks as his gaze swivels over to Gwen, the softness that suddenly comes into his eyes. She likes seeing the shy smile that blossoms on Gwen's lips in turn. She likes seeing the determination on Gwaine's face as he challenges Leon to a drinking contest. She likes Gaius's reluctant amusement as he endures the revelry of the younger crowd. Most likely he will be treating most of their hangovers in the morning. She likes the sight of Morgause lazily fending off the drunken advances of Sir Percival, a knight much too stupid for the likes of her sister. No, she's given it much thought, and her older sister would be well complemented by a quiet, sensitive, intelligent sort of man, not the hulking oaf speaking to her now. Most of all, though, she likes the warmth the scene sets off in her heart, a kindling spark that grows until it engulfs her, flows through her and banishes the once ever-present coldness.

Quietly, she rises from the table and slips from the great hall, slips out into the night for a breath of fresh air. Her head occupied with good thoughts, she scarcely knows where her feet are leading her until she ends up in the gardens, lush and full even as summer bleeds into autumn, the opulent blooms open and inviting. She reaches out a hand to a rose, blood red, runs her fingers over the silken petals. In the moonlight, with the din of the celebrations in her ears, the night feels alive, humming, with possibilities.

Even foggy with wine and with happiness, she should have known he would come. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, inhales the scents of the flowers surrounding them, as she ponders whether she intended this, whether she bent her steps this way for the express purpose of his following.

And come he does. If she hadn't known, realized or admitted maybe, what her heart was telling her before, she knows it now.

"I owe you an apology," she breathes softly into the night before he can say a word.

He steps up beside her now, and she turns to face him. He's even more beautiful in the moonlight. Head tilted slightly as if to silently ask for clarification, his blue eyes settle on her comfortingly. It's in this moment, in the space of a heartbeat, that she realizes the truth that she's been fleeing since the night he first caught her attention, the truth that the most powerful woman in the kingdom has allowed her heart to be stirred by a serving boy. Then again, now that she knows the truth of what he is, she can see it written plainly. It's in the slight hunch of his shoulders, as if he carries the weight of the kingdom upon them. It's in the tautness of his every muscle, as if he is ready at any moment to spring to the defense of those he loves. It's in the grim determination in his jaw, as if he knows and has accepted the destiny written for him.

She wonders how she could have missed it before, missed the pure power brimming behind his eyes.

"What I did that night," she begins uncertainly, "it was wrong of me, and I'm sorry."

He nods slightly. "Thank you."

His shoulders lower as he exhales. He's calm now, unbothered, and if she were anyone else, she would respond to that stillness. But she isn't anyone else, and this is a great, big, complicated dance, and what a brilliant dancer she's become.

"So," he sighs, "now that you have a coregent, are you still lonely?"

"It's funny," she murmurs. "I thought, I thought I'd feel a loss. But instead, I feel . . . like he's more my brother than he ever was."

A smile grows on his face, making it near iridescent in the moonlight. Softly, but resolutely, he says, "You will be the greatest sovereigns Camelot has ever seen, ever will see."

"You have no reason to speak as if you know."

"But I believe."

"But why?" she presses. "You have no reason, absolutely none, to put so much faith in me, yet you do."

"Isn't that what faith is?" he shrugs. "Believing without proof?"

He holds her eyes for a long time, before she breaks down and whispers, "I don't know what you want from me."

He takes a small step forward, his head dipping to look down at her. "All I want is for you to be the queen I know you are."

The confession resounds in her head, but sends her off on another path entirely. "Why do you call me that?"

"Call you what?"

"'My Queen.' For everyone else, it's 'your highness' or 'your majesty' or 'your grace.' Never that. Only you."

That smile of his still tugs at his lips, and a sparkle grows in his eyes. It's one she recognizes from all his irreverent comments in the castle. He's even closer when he whispers, his voice barely audible over the breeze, "Because you are the queen of my heart."

Her jaw tightens as she takes a step back. "Stop talking nonsense."

"Why are you so afraid?"

"I'm not afraid."

"You are. You are beautiful, powerful, and yet you think yourself unworthy of love. Why is that? Morgana . . . you are _my queen_."

It's the first time he's said her name.

But then, the way he says _that_, it's as if time itself stops.

She's known what it's meant for a long time now, but hearing it from his lips stills her tumultuous heart, fills her with unexpected warmth. Even so, even though that warmth is the sweetest thing she's felt in years, since before Camelot, the defenses she's built since then won't tumble that easily.

"What right," she begins in a fierce murmur, pressing a fist to his chest, "what right do you have to steal my heart like you have?"

Surprisingly, he chuckles and grasps her hands, his thumbs sliding over the pale skin of her wrists. "Absolutely none," he acknowledges quietly, "except that you already own mine."

What he leaves unsaid is the promise, now that he has her heart, to never let it go, never let it break. She tenses again, like she always does when she gets too close to the truth that's lain dormant inside for so long.

He pulls away.

"Your guests are missing you," he says gently before turning and walking out of the gardens.

**ix.**

He's awake when she slips through the tiny door of his bedroom and closes it behind her. It's late, the moonlight streaming in through the only window in the room. She expects him to be asleep, dreaming off the revelry that's continued for the past few days, but he's there, sitting up on the edge of the mattress, his hair ruffled, his sleep shirt rumpled, his eyes on her as she creeps in.

She strides to the bed in two quick, light-footed steps and sits down beside him.

For the first time in their acquaintance, he doesn't say a word, though she can tell he's bursting to. But he waits, waits for her to break the silence she's imposed on them. Her problem, though, is that whenever she has this much to say, everything important always seems to get tangled on its way to her tongue, and nothing of significance ever makes its way out.

It's these moments that she often chooses to say nothing at all.

Bringing a hand up to his cheek, feeling her fingers thread into his hair, she leans forward and closes her eyes. She's barely breathing, but even her slight exhalation is enough to ripple over his cheek, to send the tendrils of dark hair poking out from behind his ear wafting. She runs her thumb over the curve of his ear, assessing how far she will let herself go. It's not often she gets this close to intimacy without throwing an obstacle in her own path. Or maybe assessing how far he will let her. Perhaps he despises her now for her cowardice.

But he's still as a shadow, holding his breath, holding her heart. It's as if an artist has captured them, stolen this moment and woven it into a tapestry. She can feel his breath against her neck, hot and yet somehow comforting.

She licks her parched lips, but her throat is scratchy when she whispers, "Be my king."

He brings a hand to her face now, his thumb skimming the curve of her cheek. She opens her eyes at his touch, finds herself staring into those boundless blue eyes of his.

He swallows. "I told you when I kissed you, it wouldn't be because you ordered me to."

"I'm not ordering," she says. "I'm asking."

She can tell by the change in his gaze that he understands. That this isn't Queen Morgana Pendragon who has sneaked into his room in the middle of the night. She sits before him, simply Morgana, a vulnerable girl asking for the patience and support of the man she's unwittingly given her heart to.

The seconds that follow her confession lengthen and linger and stretch until she nearly can't breathe, but then his lips are on hers, gentle and enticing, and her lungs are filling with something much more beneficial than simple air.

"Merlin," she whispers, because all the things that are amassing in her brain are cascading to her tongue now.

But he's Merlin, the boy who always knows exactly what's in her heart without having to ask or presume or even wonder.

"I know," he murmurs before sliding his arms around her waist and capturing her lips once more, effectively terminating all articulate thought in her mind.

She wakes up wrapped in him, in this tiny bed barely big enough to hold the two of them. She's struck by the thought that this is the last place in the castle anyone would think to look for the queen, and yet it's the one place she feels safe and secure. Even as she feels the pleasant morning sunshine on her face, she knows a blush is rising on her cheeks as well, and she buries her face in his bare chest, feeling the softness of his skin beneath her palm. He's awake, she can tell just by the way he breathes, but she doesn't know what to say to him. She can persuade nobles and soothe the egos of royals, especially her brother's, and yet moments like this, moments of pure bliss, silence her silver tongue.

He drops a kiss to her brow, and it occurs to her that he always knows exactly what to say, even if it means saying nothing at all.

"Merlin?" comes Gaius's voice from through the door to his workroom.

Merlin sits abruptly, and she falls down into the pillows with a surprised laugh, then belatedly makes sure the sheet covers wrapped around her everything important.

"No!" Merlin shouts. "Don't come –"

Gaius opens the door, his eyebrows shooting straight up at the sight he's greeted with.

"- in," Merlin finishes dejectedly, dropping back down to the mattress.

"Oh, um . . ." Gaius says, averting his eyes, "good morning, Your Highness, Merlin."

"Morning," mumbles his charge, his face beet red.

She stifles another bout of giggles and manages to stammer, "Good morning, Gaius."

"I'll just, I'll fetch some breakfast, shall I?" the old physician suggests as he backs out, closing the door as he goes. Merlin turns his face toward her, a forlorn expression in those deep blue eyes. She's still burying her laughter in the pillow, and the hilarity only gets harder to stifle when Gaius pops in again and says, "Will breakfast be for two or for three?"

Merlin nearly hurtles himself off the bed. "Gaius!"

The physician disappears again, and Morgana has to disappear beneath a pillow, she's laughing so hard.

Merlin bends his arm to run his fingers along her elbow. "That amused you, did it?" he queries softly.

Peeking out from beneath the pillow, she nods.

He rolls over to capture her in his arms, smiling as he nips at her neck. "Good," he murmurs. "You should laugh more often."

And the only thought in her mind as his lips travel up to hers is: O_h, hell, how will I explain this one to the council?_

She can already see their faces, hear their reactions, as she explains why a serving boy is suddenly her closest confidant. She has a long road ahead, because this isn't something that will simply go away if she wills it. It's sticking to her, and she knows that, soon enough, she will have to figure out how to put what she feels for him above public reaction, how to keep him in her life.

**x. **

The night is cool, but she stands before the open window, drinking in the sights and sounds of the town below. The celebrations – the singing, the cheering, the bonfires, the drinking – are as joyous as they were that night two years ago, when Arthur joined her on the throne. He's the center of attention again, but this time his new wife is at his side.

She smiles. There is no one who can make her brother as happy as Gwen has, and there is no woman she would rather have helping her keep him in line, or build this kingdom, than her best friend. Besides, the two have been dancing around each other for far too long, too worried about public reaction and royal precedent. She's glad they've finally decided to put their happiness above all else. She can tell – from the celebrations tonight and simply from the way they look at each other – that this wedding can only be a boon for Camelot.

She feels his presence as soon as he slips silently into their chambers. He doesn't say a word, and she doesn't turn, but they both know she's noticed him as he crosses the room. Standing behind her, he takes off his jacket and slides it over her shoulders.

The jacket is warm, made of expensive black leather and lined with wool against the autumn chill. It's part of his new wardrobe, the one she made him submit to over a year ago when she and Arthur decided it was time he started getting credit for everything he does for this kingdom and given him the position of Chief Advisor. The people had taken to him at once, as if they'd already known of his goodness, of his willingness to lay down his life for Camelot, as if they'd already known that he was the one responsible for the melting of their queen's glacial heart.

"You'll catch a chill, My Queen" he murmurs gently, his arms around her now.

She feels her heart skip, even after all this time, at hearing those words fall from his lips.

"Not with you here," she teases just as gently, because he's always had a way of dispelling the cold in a room, in her heart.

He chuckles softly, his nose buried in her hair. She turns in his arms, slides a hand into his hair, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. He responds eagerly, but tenderly, his lips moving gently against hers. As always, she's overwhelmed by the strength of the affection in his kiss.

"Marry me," she whispers against his lips.

She can feel the curve of his smile as he replies, "Is that an order?"

"Hush," she chastises, even while smiling, "I'm being serious. Can you hear that? The cheering, the joy? Do you know what that means?" He is silent, waiting for her explanation, and she continues, "The people adore Arthur, and they're rapturous over his marriage. It means, my love, that if they accept the marriage between the prince they worship and a former handmaiden, they will have no trouble accepting the marriage between the queen they tolerate and the court advisor they already adore. And I know you hate to admit it, but they _do_ adore you."

"You really don't know, do you," he murmurs, his breath tickling her cheek, "how much they love you?"

"Merlin . . ."

"No, listen," he urges softly, "you are every bit as important to Camelot as Arthur is, more so even. You were the one who stood by this kingdom when it was falling apart. You were the one who saw how glorious it could be and risked everything you had to bring that vision about." He gives a short, frustrated shake of his head and pulls her closer. "But, no, forget about Arthur. Forget about Camelot. This isn't about being a queen. Morgana . . ."

But then he loses his words, not a common occurrence with him, and simply tightens his hold on her, pressing his forehead to hers. They stay that way for a long moment, framed in the moonlight spilling through the window, holding each other. She's come to appreciate the importance of small joys, being held by him, feeling his heartbeat beneath her palm, that she makes no effort to break away from his embrace.

Finally, he sighs and says, "I won't marry you because you think the people will consent. I want to marry you because I love you." He pulls back to cup her cheek and look her in the eye. "I love you, Morgana, every part of you – every smile, every smirk, every laugh, every tear, even the parts you'd rather run from. And even if it takes me a lifetime to do it, I'm going to prove to you how much you deserve to be loved."

She pulls her bottom lip inside her mouth nervously, like she always does when he starts to talk seriously about his feelings. Recognizing the habit, he simply smiles, tangles his fingers in her hair, and drops a kiss on her forehead. He moves away from her to close the window, effectively cutting off all the din of the revelry.

"I'm as ecstatic for Gwen and Arthur as you are," he grins, "but let's just forget about all this tonight. Just come to bed."

He crosses the room to begin changing, and she hears the rest of his unspoken entreaty. It's late. They've both had too much wine. Their heads will be clearer in the morning. She watches him for a moment, his pale torso visible in the darkness as he strips off his court clothes to exchange them for sleepwear. Once finished pulling on his sleep trousers, he kneels beside the hearth and breathes a fire into life with just a word, illuminating the room with its soft orange glow. He clambers into bed, settles comfortably, and fixes her with a playful, pleading look. And she knows suddenly what he's thinking.

He's worried that tonight's desire for marriage is simply jealousy over their friends' happiness. But he doesn't know that it's been a long time since she began to think of him in those terms, only she hasn't had the courage to speak of it till this hour. He's afraid that her feelings aren't as strong as his, even though he is the sun that brightens her darkest night, the life for whom her heart beats. He'd accused her of not being aware of her effect on the people, but there are times when she thinks he is completely oblivious to _his_ effect on _her_.

"Are you coming to bed, or are you just going to stare at me all night?" he asks cheekily.

In response, the jacket slips from her shoulders, and her gown follows close behind, pooling on the floor and leaving her clad in only her shift. The nip that had hung in the chamber has been driven out by the fire and his presence, yet there are goose bumps along her arms. She climbs onto the mattress and slithers beneath the covers until she is lying across his chest. Twisting her fingers into his dark hair, she leans down to bestow on him a deep kiss. When they break apart, his eyes are clearer than they have been all night.

"Listen to me," she says softly. "_I_, Morgana of Cornwall, daughter of Gorlois, the frightened, vulnerable girl whose heart you saved from an unspeakable fate, want to marry _you_, Merlin of Ealdor, son of Hunith and Balinor, the man who showed me what it was to hope."

His steady, pensive gaze holds hers. "Have you ever thought about what it would be like? If you weren't a queen?"

She presses another kiss to his lips, softer this time, and admits, "All the time." She twirls a lock of his hair around her forefinger. "We'd have a cottage in the countryside, near your mother. You'd work in the fields, and I'd spend my days waiting for you to come home, and trying to turn myself into a housewife. And we'd have children, lots of them, little boys who have your cheekbones and your ears, little girls who have your eyes and your temperament."

"And how would they resemble you?"

"Mmm . . . they would have my propensity for getting in trouble."

He chuckles. "Very likely. They'll also have your passion, your fiery temper, your intelligence."

"They will be the best of you and me," she murmurs, nuzzling into him.

"They will."

"But I _am_ a queen," she says with a sigh, "and you _are_ a royal advisor. We cannot retreat to a cottage in the country. But this life we have together, here, we can make it extraordinary."

He pulls her down for another kiss and whispers against her lips, "We already have, my love. We already have."

**xi.**

In the deep of winter, a child is born – a boy, with a shock of black hair, a ready laugh, and wide, striking blue eyes. His father bequeaths him a name, Aurelius, after his own father's father, while his mother bequeaths him a kingdom. His uncle, on the other hand, ever sensible, gives him his very first sword. It sits in the corner of the room, propped up and gleaming in the moonlight, a prediction and an expectation of the man he will grow to be. He also, despite the knowledge that this child has displaced his own as the first in line for the throne, bestows a kiss on his nephew's brow the first time he holds him in his arms.

When the announcement of the birth is made, celebrations begin in the town, in the taverns and in the streets. The festivities had begun with the news, even before the proclamations of a city-wide banquet, even before the promises filter down from the throne to the peasantry in honor of the new prince. Because he is the future, he is the new heir to the throne of this kingdom, the one they will teach to be strong and true and fearless.

He _is_ the future, his mother knows, but not for the reason they all presume. As she looks down upon the sleeping newborn in his cradle, feels the swell of love within her heart, she also knows that they will shower this child with love, show him the right and wrong of it all, give him a better life. He is not simply the future of another royal family. He is the firstborn, the best of both of them. She can already see the man he will become – brave, honorable, _good_, just like his father.

On cue, Merlin appears, dressed in his court clothes for the feast. "They're waiting for you," he says gently.

But then he's next to her, fingering her crimson gown, a look of awe upon his face as he brushes a thumb over their son's brow, and she knows he's been pulled in as well.

"Let them wait a few more moments," she tells him in a whisper, so as not to wake their boy.

Chuckling, he laces his arms around her waist and drops a kiss against her neck. "He's perfect."

"You are quite right," she says with a kiss, "absolutely perfect."

They stand there for a moment, silently mesmerized, and then he breaks the silence with, "They love him already, you know. They're chanting his name in the streets."

"Drunkenly chanting," she amends with a soft laugh.

"They're drunk because they're happy. Because our son is . . . he's hope for them."

"No," she shakes her head, turning in her husband's arms, "he's not just an heir, Merlin. They love him because . . ."

"They love _us_," he finishes for her.

She used to think that she was a monarch who could never belong despite her birthright. She used to think, every time she stepped outside the castle, that all people saw was the woman who usurped their darling prince. She knows now, though, through the time it's taken her to grow into a queen, through the time it's taken them to glimpse behind her mask, that this was never about power. Somehow, while the four of them were grappling with the ruins of a kingdom and raising it to a glory it's never seen before, it became about each other, _family_.

And this son who sleeps before them, his head full of dreams, is not just an heir. He is the culmination of a promise made long ago, between a boy and his queen, between a girl and her king.

She threads her fingers into his hair and presses a kiss to his lips. "And _I_ love _you_," she assures him, even though he doesn't need to be told. He knows, has known for years, even since before she trusted enough to open her heart.

He kisses her again. Smiling when he reluctantly pulls away, he says, "Are you sure we have to go to the feast?"

She laughs and pulls him closer. "I believe I could be persuaded," she replies before she surrenders to his kiss, surrenders to the future that lingers in every look, every promise, every sunrise.


End file.
